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THE CITY, AND OTHER POEMS 



By the same writer — 

THE SIGN OF THE HARP 

OCTAVES IN AN OXFORD GARDEN 
Lettered and illuminated by Margarethb Hkisser 

WESTWIND SONGS 



For the privilege of republication in this volume 
acknowledgment is due Mr. Edmund D. Brooks, 
owner of the copyrights for " Octaves in an Oxford 
Garden " and several of the sonnets. 



THE CITY 

A Poem-Drama 
AND OTHER POEMS 

BY 

ARTHUR UPSON 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON : MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd, 
1905 

All rights reserved 



3^05 



^~ WRY at •'''«WaF!!£3S 
Two aoyies rseuwwwj 

OCT. to 






!<? 



Copyright, 1903, 1903, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 

Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1905. 



J. 8. Gushing & Co. — Berwick «Ss Smith Co, 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



^ CONTENTS 

[^ PAGE 

^ The City '^^^ 

I. Dawn ^ 

tn II. Morning '^ 

U^' III. Afternoon 40 

IV. Evening "7 

Octaves in an Oxford Garden 85 

Wadham ^7 

Nature's Calmness ...•••• 9^ 

Lost Inheritance ^^' .92 

Vicissitude 93 

Old Song and a River 93 

The Same Sky 94 

Constancy 95 

Ford Madox Brown's "Christ washing the Feet of 

Peter" 95 

The Absence 9^ 

St. Paul's 97 

Dust of Eden 9^ 

Restoration 9° 

Roman Glassware preserved in the Ashmolean . . 99 

Life's Usurpation 99 

Traces 

The One Flower ^°° 

Separation ^°^ 

V 



Contents 

vi 

PAGE 

Sonnets 105 

Life's Tavern 107 

Sultan's Bread 108 

Failures . 109 

" And women must weep " . . . . . .110 

Golden Rod . . . . . . . .111 

October 112 

With a Copy of the Mona Lisa 113 

The Rezzonico Palace 114 

"Ex Libris" 115 

Mothers and Sisters 116 

After reading " The Golden Treasury " in Green Park 1 1 7 
To George Crabbe . . . . . . .118 

Thought of Stevenson . . . . . .119 

Bonington (1801-1828) 120 

Benjamin-Constant's Portrait of Queen Victoria . . 121 

Orpah 122 

A Motive out of Lohengrin 123 

The Mystery of Beauty 1 24 

Consummation . . . . . . . .126 

Washington's Birthday 127 

Arlington 128 

The Sequoia, " William McKinley " . . . .129 

Wheat Elevators 130 

The Coal Breaker 131 

The Statue of Liberty 132 

Note 133 



THE CITY 



"for he looked for a city which 
hath foundations, whose builder 
and maker is god" 



|Bet0onfif 



UCHOMO, surnamed Abgar, King of Edessa in Mesopotamia. 

Cleonis, an Athenian woman, his Queen. 

Ananias, a Chamberlain. 

Agamede. 

Stilbe. 

A Physician. 

Belarion. 

Body Slave to Abgar. 

A Messenger. 

Slave-Boy. 

Women, companions and attendants of the Queen. 

Soldiers. 

The scene throughout is an enclosed garden of planes and pome- 
granates some distance outside Edessa. The river Daisun, with 
occasional sails, and a winding military road, are seen at intervals 
in the rolling fields beyond the garden walls. Against the horizon 
in the left background arise the walls and towers of a Greco- 
Parthian city. In the middle background there is a massive gate, 
closed and barred ; its hinge posts are termini carven with Janus 
heads. In the right foreground the portico of a sutnmer palace in 
the Doric style projects into the scene through a wealth of oleanders. 
The centre is occupied by a marble dais surmounted by a long semi- 
circular Greek settle of stone, and banked with luxuriant flowers. 
Near this, a sun-dial. 

The time is in the sixteenth year of the reign of the Roman 
Emperor Tiberius, late in the spring. 

The action covers a period of one day from dawn to dark. 



Dawn 

I 

I. DAWN 

A group of the Queen^s women attired in -flowing 
white pepli, one hearing a lyre, some sitting, some lean- 
ing against pillars of the portico. Soft music. They 
sing to a slow measure. 

Chorus 

Of old it went forth to Euchenor, pronounced of his 

sire — 
Reluctant, impelled by the god's unescapable fire — 
To choose for his doom or to perish at home of disease 
Or be slain of his foes, among men, where Troy surges 

down to the seas. 

Polyides, the soothsayer, spake it, inflamed by the god. 
Of his son whom the fates singled out did he bruit it 

abroad ; 
And Euchenor went down to the ships with his armour 

and men 
And straightway, grown dim on the gulf, passed the 

isles he passed never again. 



The City 

2 

Why weep ye, O women of Corinth? The doom ye 

have heard 
Is it strange to your ears that ye make it so mournful a 

word? 
Is he who so fair in your eyes to his manhood 

upgrew 
Alone in his doom of pale death — are of mortals the 

beaten so few? 

O weep not, companions and lovers! Turn back to 

your joys : 
The defeat was not his which he chose, nor the victory 

Troy's. 
Him a conqueror, beauteous in youth, o'er the flood his 

fleet brought, 
And the swift spear of Paris that slew completed the 

conquest he sought. 

Not the falling proclaims the defeat, but the place of 

the fall; 
And the fate that decrees and the god that impels 

through it all 



Dawn 
3 

Regard not blind mortals' divisions of slayer and slain, 
But invisible glories dispense wide over the war-gleam- 
ing plain. [Enter Agamede in the portico. 

Agamede 

Go, gentle sisters, and sweet rest be yours. 
Ere noon comes hither Abgar's embassy 
From the great Healer in Jerusalem. 
Get what repose ye may, for Ananias 
Hath sent his courier to our waiting Queen 
Begging some converse here with her, and we 
Doubtless shall then be needed. 

Stilbe {stepping from amongst the women) 

Abgar sleeps? 
Agamede 

Like a tired boy. Cleonis also rests, 

And the old doctor in his ante-room. 

The Queen commands me thank her faithful ones 

Who all night long this slumber have implored 

For Abgar's couch with luUing of their song. 



The City 



Stilbe 



Is this the morning? I began to think 

That, like Persephone, we, too, perchance 

Might have transgressed in this half-yearlong night, 

Green pomegranates being irresistible 

And the only cheer the dark earth offered us. 

Pluto provided ripe ones for his guest. 

Agamede 

Yonder the city's waking. Eunoe, 

Straight to thy bed. Dear child, thy blossom head 

Hangs heavy as the dewiest poppy ! Thou, 

Erigone, whose lyre hath brought the morn, 

And Httle Nyseis of the silver voice. 

Speed now while slumber broods above these halls 

And even Abgar sleeps. 

Thee, Stilbe, yet 
Would I detain a space. Some things there are 
Befitting us alone as nearest her 
And tenderest in her love to weigh together 
Of our Cleonis. [Exeunt Women, except Stilbe. 



Dawn 
5 

Stilbe {coldly) 

You, being cousin to her, 
Have preference in her intimacy. Much, 
Therefore, I'm honoured by your interview. 
Pray, madam, first, whose song was that we sang 
The last ere you dismissed us? 

Agamede 

Abgar's song; 
Thou knowest he made it in the garden here. 

Stilbe 
I had forgot Cleonis sings but love. 

Agamede 
Yea, and a love the dream of which men die for ! 

Stilbe 

And the Hfe of which, I see, they sicken of. 
The fighter for me, and songs of sounding war ! 

[A pause. 



The City 

6 

Agamede 

Glaucon, my husband, died to save his king; 

Yonder, amid the blossoms, lies entombed 

Our little child, our Httle Charmides. 

O gods ! take not away my joy in her, 

This fair- faced creature I had learnt to love! 

Stilbe, thou hast seemed like a fresher self 

To me a widow and bereft of youth 

In whom so many hopes have been consumed. 

My little sister left in Argolis 

Must now be tall as thou, a woman grown. 

[Confronting her.] 
Tell me, loved Stilbe, what hath stung thy heart 
That, since our summons, thy sweet lips so oft 
Speak bitterly? 

Stilbe 

Stale sweetness oft turns bitter. 

Agamede 

Thou art so fair ! Yet many a winged thrust 
At our sad, gentle Queen I hear of thee. 



Dawn 

7 

Oh, hadst thou earlier from Edessa come 

To stand beside her through this Hngering grief 

Thou, too, wouldst curb the quick scorn of the world ! 

Stilbe 

Thrice o'er these marbled pools the moon hath filled 

Since Uchomo she lured to dwell off here 

While Ananias trudges to Judasa 

For GaHlean charms. The very pause 

She claps upon our city gaiety 

Cries out against her. With the king fled hither 

The town is hke a tomb dead-garlanded. 

I, who this selfsame week was to have wed, 

Am like to die a virgin, being called — 

The maidens decked, as one might almost say, 

And the libation poised above the altar — 

Called with new relays to attend her spouse 

And sing these dull songs to him evermore. 

B clarion, too, our nuptial rites delayed. 

Grows angry in his speech. 



The City 

8 

Agamede 

Then thou hast speech 
With him? 'Tis of Belarion I would warn thee 
As one who hates the Queen and would rejoice 
To see the end of this long dynasty. 
How gains he access to thee, and for what ? 

Stilbe 

He is a man of promise. Heard you not 
What the oracle declared? 

Agamede {ajter a pause) 

Who is this woman ? 
Not she who suckled at the same fond breast, 
SiciHan Praxinoe's, with her 
She rails on now — bred up in watchful care 
Her foster-sister in Athenian halls ! 

Stilbe 

Milk is not blood; and even blood will chill 
Before a thwarted love — such love as mine ! 



Dawn 
9 

Agamede 

Such love as thine? Why, girl, thou'rt mad! Dost 

dream 
That ever love hath sprung from such a soul? 

[Stilbe laughs scornfully. 
Ah! The old tale — that thou wast courted first 
When Uchomo to Athens came. Why, that 
Belongs among the old forgotten things. 

Stilbe (starting away) 

Oh, some remember still. Yea, even yet 

This royal pair among the oleanders 

Shall well remember ! [Agamede follows her. 

Do not follow me. 
I, too, have biddings. Follow not, I say ! 
I'll cry and start Edessa's dreamer up 
Where he lies dozing in her arms ! I'll shriek ! 

Agamede (in a low voice as they move into the 
trees) 

Poor, blighted flower! What thou revealest me 



The City 

lO 

Confirms injurious whispers round thy name 
Of poisonous growths about thee, poisoning thee. 
I will know all. I will not leave thy side 
Till the last shred thou dost confess to me. 

[Exeunt among the trees. 



Morning 
II 



II. MORNING 

Four hours later. 

The Physician is discovered near the sun-dial, ner- 
vously pacing a short distance to and jro. 

Enter Ananias with attendants, from the gate which is 
swung open jor him by guards. 

Physician (starting towards him) 
At last! Thrice welcome home, Lord Ananias! 

Ananias 

I greet thee. Pray, call not Cleonis yet; 

My courier told me of her weariness. 

Sit here. How hath the King done in mine absence? 
[He hands the Physician to a place on the 
settle and remains standing. During the 
following he paces slowly and firmly to and 
jro bejore the dais, pausing occasionally 
with military abruptness. 



The City 

12 

Physician 

I scarce had hoped myself to have the honour 
Of your advices. The Asklepiad 
Came not along? 

Ananias 

How doth my lord the King ? 
He hath not rashly left this heahng place? 
Be brief. How is his fever, sir? 

Physician 

My lord, 
Last night I deemed his fever slower, stole 
Forth for an hour to offer up to Paion 
Such rites as the old, pious world pronounced 
For his disease, and left him soothed in sleep — 
Or so he seemed — the Attic women singing 
Hygeia's hymn, with paeans to the god; 
And she, Cleonis, by his couch. — Ah, sir. 
She hath not left his side this many a week, 
But they together wander all the day 



Morning 

About these gardens or within the palace; 
And nights she lays her down beside his bed 
Upon her ready pallet, not content 
To let sweet slumber steal her cares away 
Till first she see him peaceful. Like a child 
Is she for the mild beauty of her love. 

Ananias 
I ask for news. Pray, sir, how is the King? 

Physician 

I left him with a sleeper's pulse, moist-hpped; 
The low lamp softly shining, at his head 
His faithful Karamanian, on his breast 
The Queen's light hand that gently rose and fell 
With his deep breaths, and all the medicines 
Of my prognosis ranged conveniently ; — 
For, though I follow Erasistratos, 
That learned doctor at Seleukos' court, 
Our art's chief glory, in him I love less 



The City 

What Hippokrates and the school of Kos 
Instilled, and rather take his slant to Knidos : 
Each humour of the four three changes hath, 
And each degree of change hath its own drugs. 

Ananias 

Great Zeus ! I had not guessed that so profound 
My question was ! 

Physician 

In due course. Chamberlain. 
I, anxious, on returning through the halls 
Hearing clear voices from the royal chamber, 
Sped thither. — One brief hour away, so long 
As might suffice to lay fresh myrrh and vervain, 
From Epidaurus which Cleonis hath 
For heahng rituals, on Apollo's shrine. — 
Found him, despite all previous reproofs. 
Risen from rest and pacing round his floor 
Dressed as for journeys, girded with his blade. 
The Queen, who calmlier looked, sat meekly by, 



Morning 
IS 

And I did overhear much feverish talk 

Of dreams and sloth, and work and war ; and, last, 

I made it clear he sudden had resolved 

No longer here within this wholesome house 

To tarry, but so soon as you, my lord. 

Your grateful presence should again bestow 

Upon this troubled realm, he would return 

With all the court unto Edessa. 

Ananias 

Well, 

What more heardst thou a- listening? 

Physician 

Only what 

One may while in surprise held hesitant. 

He spoke of these two months awaiting you 

And this Jerusalem thaumaturgus whom 

Strangely he sets much hope on ; but in chief 

He did reproach himself for idling here 

For, ''whom the gods will bow must face the gods 

With a self yet unbowed," quoth he; "Both selves 



The City 

x6 

Of me are rotting here. What malady 

Save sloth consumes both soul and body too?" 

Ananias 

'Twas wisely listened, and remembered well. 

Passing the rest, let us arrive at length 

To where thou vanquishedst surprise. What then? 

Physician 

I then, with my sick-room authority, 
Drew back the arras and appeared to them, 
Placed soporific leaves upon the brasier, 
Besought Cleonis leave us for her chamber, 
And proffered Abgar a composing draught. 

What think you? Rather than accept my skill 
And the soft dulling ministries of drugs 
That bring the body rest, he spurns my hand. 
And rising violently on his bed 
Commands Cleonis stay and me depart! 



Morning 
17 

I wavered 'twixt two judgments ; but I saw 
Such glance of anger under his dark brow 
I turned and left him in his weakness. Since 
All which I have been deep distraught to know 
How him I serve, and, I do swear you, love, 
I may best bring to reason. 

Ananias 

'Twill be hard. 
Exasperation is an angry wound 
Thy surgery but inflames, Asklepios. 
Keep thou remote from him: there's means for thee. 

Physician 

Thank you, my lord ! I am rejoiced to find 
Your first so Hke my last deHberation ! 
It will be best to leave him for a space, 
Perhaps until he send for me; and yet 
I love him and I would not seem displeased. 



The City 

i8 

Voice of a Guard 
None pass without the royal sign ! 

Voice oj a Messenger 

Behold it. 
[Enter Messenger, in haste. Bows and presents 
despatches to Ananias. 

Messenger 

These from the prefect Mithradates — beg 
Instant reply. 

Ananias (Reads. Takes stylus and tablet from girdle 
and writes hurriedly) 

To Mithradates this. 

[Exit Messenger. 
Here's service for you if you love our lord: 
Read over this despatch and make it yours ; 

[Writes. He gives the Physician the Mes- 
senger's despatch. 



Morning 
19 

Then to the city post, seek out these men, 
Both veterans in the service of this house 
And scarred in old campaigns against its foes. 
Speak with them privily. Antigonus 
Will summon guards, and John the Magistrate 
Suppress the public brawl with sterner force 
Than this seal's lack would warrant him. 

\He seals with a ring two packets j and gives 
them to the Physician. 

Physician 

This hour 

Doth Abgar with Cleonis haunt this spot. 

You'll meet him here, my lord; 'tis better so. 

His humour is more genial in the air 

For taking news of ill. Commend my love 

With an apology to Abgar who, 

Knowing the pressure, will condone mine absence. 

One thing: Tell him not all at once; but first 

Only as darkening probabilities 

Assert them, then — 



The City 

20 

Ananias 

'Tis sixteen stadia thither, 
And thou must seek Antigonus by noon. 
Pray, get to horse at once. 

The Queen approaches; 
She must not know the matter of our speech. 

Physician 
I go. \ExU. 

[Enter Cleonis from the portico. 

Cleonis 
Friend ! 

Ananias (kneeling) 
Lo, I am returned, dear Queen. 

Cleonis {raising him, smiling sadly) 
What weary journeys we have all been taking ! 

Ananias 
I would all had such welcome at the end. 



Morning 

21 

Cleonis {seating herself upon the dais) 

These many weeks hath Abgar longed for you 
With a deep, earnest longing of the soul. 
A brief dull slumber torn from fever's rage 
Now binds him ; for his nights are tedious. 
You have been informed as much but now? 

Ananias 

As much, 
But with more rhetoric. 

Cleonis 

The poor old leech 
Is very learned, but his ministries 
Have not availed. I look with perfect hope 
Toward the arrival of the Healer. So 
Tell me of him, and of your travel, all, 
And Uchomo shall straightway learn from me. 

Ananias 

"All" is summed up in this: the thought of him 
Whose body's rest I'd give my Hfe to win. 



The City 

22 

Cleonis 

Your absence lent us pause to measure you : 

Your putting by of prejudice, your pure, 

Yea, sacrificial friendship. Oft whole days 

As he hath paced these prisoning gardens round, 

Subduing his proud soul within a frame 

Inadequate, that he might bear the long 

And well-nigh insupportable delay 

Of the great Healer's answer, then of you, 

Of your long, tireless vigilance, your strong 

Mid-manhood's quiet, unprotesting love. 

To me he spake. And once he said, "Of such 

I'll build my state when I am whole again; 

Or, lacking others like him, base all there!" 

Ananias 

Only the usual grace my service bears 
Of an hereditary loyalty 
To worth unusual. I served Bar-Abgar; 
My father, his. I am a soldier, plain, 



Morning 
23 

And not much given to visions; yet sometimes 
For Uchomo there's bred in my regard 
A sudden tenderness for that he dreams, 
Moving along some higher plane than ours, 
And seeks to found our city in his dreams. 

Cleonis 

And never will our dull world learn that dreams 

Are all that fact hath ever issued from. 

But yet you have not spoken of the Healer. 

I had dared half-beheve that he would come 

Prepared to make our palace his abode 

As ran our invitation sent by you. 

Much did this thought alleviate his pain 

While Abgar yearned for that strong being's touch. 

Delay suits not his temper, and I fear 

The issue. — He but follows you ? His train 

Could not accommodate them to your haste? 

[A pause. She speaks with growing anxiety. 
How long must we await him? 



The City 

24 

Ananias 

O Cleonis, 

Forgive that I ne'er learned the courtier's phrase 

To sweeten bitter news ! Your heart is strong, 

Made so in many troubles early borne. 

Cleonis {smothering her fear) 

Only as it must seem for Uchomo. 
I am too weak a woman to bear well 
A loved one's pain. 

Ananias 

His pain so much is thine 
That 'twill be bravely borne, dear Queen. Know, 

then, 
The Hebrew prophet, called the Nazarene, 
Declined Edessa's princely offer. 

Cleonis (leaning forward in excitement) 

Ah, 
Avert such woe, Athena Paionia ! 



Morning 

Ananias {approaching her as he speaks^ and seating 
himself at the opposite end oj the dais) 

This is the hardest part of all my mission. 
Compared to this, those stony Syrian hills 
Are smoother than the broad Palmyran road. 

I know not of what power that Healer worked, 
Nor if he wrought at all the cures they tell, 
Having seen his face but once. He had a look 
Most kind. I thought of Uchomo's fair brow. 
And of the steady light of his deep eyes 
When he discourses of his ideal city. 

Cleonis (meditatively) 
They say he, too, hath powerful enemies. 

Ananias 
From whom the court of Abgar promised refuge. 

Jerusalem swarmed. From up and down the kingdom 

Thronged the barbarians for their sacrifice. 

It seems their god hath rites that once each year 



The City 

26 



In the mid-spring exact their celebrations; 

And I must hit it at the very time 

When all their hostels choke, and every hole 

Teems with their tribesmen gaunt from hill and plain. 

It was most fortunate I had of you 

The letter to the lady Berenis. 

She, as Tiberius' niece, holds high estate 

Amongst the Romans of Jerusalem. 

As for the servants of our retinue, 

They needs must fare ill, like the pilgrims. Me 

She of her generous hospitaHty 

Most courteously those days did entertain 

In honour of the Osrhoenic House 

Whose latest prince by fair repute she loves 

For his just laws and life. 

From her I heard 
Much of this preaching carpenter who builds 
Such wondrous edifice of charity 
Amongst those fierce uncharitable Jews, 
And something of his marvellous cures, on which 
I pressed much question while within her gates. 



Morning 
27 

Berenis, having friends among his school, 

Herself a half-disciple, unrevealed 

For reasons politic, obtained me one 

Philip, a humble Galilean, who 

Through the packed alleys entered where he taught 

And learned an hour when we more privately 

Together might converse. I sought him then, 

This Phihp guiding me, in Bethany, 

A hamlet up an ohve-sprinkled hill 

Just out the eastern walls. There found we him 

Surrounded by the trees and some few friends. 

The village gentry whose loved guest he was. 

[Beckons to an attendant and takes a parchment 
scroll jrom a casket in the attendants hand. 

Cleonis 
Tell me of his appearance. What said he? 

Ananias 
He had prepared this scroll and gave it me 



The City 

28 

With courteous words, yet, as I after thought, 
Most singularly free from deference 
For one who ranks with artisans. His look 
Betrayed no satisfaction with our suit; 
Yet he did emanate a grave respect 
Which seemed habitual, much as Stoics use, 
Yet kinder; and his bearing had more grace 
Than any Jew's I ever saw before. 

As for his words, I own I scarce recall them, 

And have been wondering ever since that I, 

Bred at a court and tutored to brave deeds. 

Should be so sudden silenced. For I stood 

Obedient to unknown authorities 

Which spake in eye and tone and every move, 

In that his first mild answer of refusal. 

He seemed to have foreknowledge of our case; 

Mayhap the Gahlean gave him news 

Of our perplexity and long delay 

In matters urgent to the city's welfare 

Which I had hinted of to Berenis. 



Morning 
29 

He looked on me with such compassionate gaze 
I had an impulse to renew my plea; 
But he, as if he read my inmost mind, 
Bade me tell Abgar to contemplate this 

[Indicating the scroll. 
And shortly all should be made clear to him. 

Cleonis 

Are you he who would yield his hfe to win 

Peace for his tortured master's body ? Shame ! 

Oh, had I gone I would have so besought him. 

And stormed him with the passion of my prayers, 

That he had never dared refuse me ! Love, 

Love 'twas you lacked to burn your words in him ! 

Had you loved Abgar even as duty bids. 

Even as your father loved Bar- Abgar when 

He made the pilgrimage to Epidaurus 

And slept upon the slain goat's skin, and begged 

Asklepios' image for his master's hfe, 

And so prevailed ; — oh, had you loved one half 

As yonder Karamanian slave who stands 



The City 

All night on guard at Abgar's weary head ; — 

Or even one little, little part as I 

Who, a poor helpless girl, can only stroke 

The feverish temples, hold the throbbing wrist — 

Oh, you had begged with tears, and he had come 

And healed the hidden canker of our lives ! 

Ananias {arising) 

My love counts not its duties; nor, I think, 
Is love summed up in all its victories : 
'Tis larger, and includes defeat. In this 
All I could do I did, since there was power 
Would dumb the boldest suitor. Written here 
Is his deliberate determination. 

Cleonis {arising. Her fingers are strained together) 

I'll go myself and grovel on my knees ! 
He who hath made the leper whole, hath caused 
The bhnded eyes to flood with heaven's light, 
And, O ye gods ! they say restored the dead — 



Morning 
31 

Him shall I travel to by night and day, 

And, having found, shall warm so v^ith my tears 

That his indifference shall melt away 

Like April ice upon Hymettus. Oh ! 

[She sinks, weeping, to the seat. 

Ananias {gently) 

Cleonis, I have twice thy years. I know 
Both love from hate, and duty from indifference. 
'Twas only love for Abgar took me hence 
In perilous times; and it was not indifference 
Detained the man : a thing to ponder on. 

Cleonis 
Show me the way to him, I do command you ! 

Ananias 

Your journey to him would be all in vain, 
Your prayers and tears in vain, unless, as some 



The City 

He lived among believe, he was a god 
Who may be sought by sorrow anywhere. 

Cleonis 
What mean you ? 

Ananias 
He is dead. 

Cleonis 

So are the gods, then ! 
Say on. 

Ananias 

Even as I tarried the last day 
At the kind house of Berenis, we heard 
He was condemned to death. My mission done, 
I bade my horsemen make all ready, spurred 
Out of the city, and with haste departed. 

Cleonis 
What, waited not to search the matter out ! 
Subsequent haste might well have bought you hours 
To learn this master's fate ! How then, say you 



Morning 
33 

They killed him? On what charge proved they his 

guilt? 

Ananias 

That I know not. It seemed a common clamour 
For blood — not blood of guilt, but innocence. 
Their god must have, it seems, a human victim 
Along with the twice seven-score thousand lambs 
They slay at each of these strange feasts of theirs. 

Cleonis 
What time stayed you within their savage city? 

Ananias 

Three days. My interview was Wednesday. On 

The Friday as I left the lady's gate 

She with her household gave us company 

Unto the open highway, and there called 

Afresh on us the favour of the gods 

To cheer our long return. 

Just down the street 
We, not ten paces from the friendly door, 



The City 

34 

Beheld a noisy rabble that so pressed 

The narrowing way, we reined our steeds aside 

To wait its passage. 'Twas a dreadful sight: 

A criminal condemned by Roman law 

To drag the wretched beam he was to die on, 

As is the usage towards the baser sort 

Who should not stain the honourable sword, 

Surrounded by a hateful mob kept off 

By the centurions of the procurator. 

Cleonis 

What poor, doomed wretch was he ? — Oh, 'twas not 

— not ... 

Ananias 

As they drew nearer, from my horse I saw him. 

And it was he; but that I only learned 

By the loud banter of the bullying crowd. 

He had transgressed some law those Hebrews have, 

And went to pay for it upon the cross. 

As the way widened past the high-walled house 

Of Berenis, the throng thinned, and I saw 

Plainer the moving figure of the man 



Morning 
35 

And the huge beam laid on him. Suddenly 
From the great gate I saw a form dart forth 
Straight towards him, pause and seem to have some 

speech 
With the condemned, as, by old privilege, 
Sometimes the pious ladies do with those 
Who tread the shameful road. Her speech was brief. 
She turned, and, as I saw 'twas Berenis, 
Towards me she came, and her eyes, wet with tears. 
Smiled sadly, and she said these final words: 

''Such shame a mighty purpose led him to, 
Yet he shrinks not, but steadfast to this end 
Inevitable hath he come his way. 
A woman of my house was healed of him 
By kissing once the border of his garment. 
Take your King this, and say that as he dragged 
His cruel but chosen cross to his own doom 
Some comfort in its cooHng web he found, 
And left a blessing in its pungent folds." 

[He takes a small square oj linen from his bosom. 



The City 

A keenly odorous linen from her hand 

I laid within my bosom next the scroll. 

And so we said farewell, and I spurred on, 

The hoarse mob's laughter down the blazing street 

Making us glad to quit the fearful city. 

[He gives the linen into the hand 0} Cleonis. 

Cleonis 
Oh, let them never leave their quiet hills, 
These prophets that dream well for all the world ! 
Let them remain in mountains far from man 
Where nothing fiercer than the lion roams, 
Communing with the kindly elements — 
The earth that is their mother, and the winds 
That are such spirits' brothers, and the fire 
Of splendid storms that like their words breaks forth, 
And waters that flow out like their great love ! 
They are of other worlds and strangers here: 
Let them remain in mountains — or in gardens ! 

Ananias 
Ay, but we need such in this world of men. 



Morning 
37 

Cleonis 

Ye need them as the tiger needeth blood ! 
Come, show me one great soul that taught you good 
Whom your wild world would have; one bold emprise 
Without Protesilaus at the prow? 

The Carthaginians exiled Hannibal; 
The Romans, Scipio; Cicero they stabbed; 
Athens gave Socrates the poison cup 
Because she feared his truth; Jerusalem 
Doth crucify him who would make her whole. 

O Ananias, this thy tale for me 

Brings ominous forebodings. Pray, beseech 

With all your long-used freedom that the King 

Go not yet to the city. I have heard 

Slight rumours of a restless populace 

That, like caged eagles, fight the hand would free, 

And look suspiciously on Uchomo. 

Is it not true that gathering troubles brood 

Within the city? 



The City 

38 

Ananias 
Yes. 

Cleonis 

I felt it. Now 
Give me the whole truth. I've the heart for it. 

Ananias {handing her the Messenger's despatch) 

This word but now despatched to me tells all. 

[A pause. She reads. 

Cleonis 

'Tis all my fears condensed into a Hne. 

Now must your prayers with mine urge him remain. 

Towards evening, at the old accustomed hour, 

Here meet us and conclude your narrative 

Which I will give to Uchomo complete 

Up to the Healer's shameful death; and that 

Will I in silence leave till custom dull 

The lesser sadness. 

Are the guards informed? 
Is all precaution taken? 



Morning 
39 

Ananias 

All is ready; 
But I go now to double-warn his watch 
Against the morrow. Be not anxious. We 
Who long have served this house will prove our love. 

[ExiL 

Cleonis 

Bear with me, Ananias. My heart aches. 



The City 

40 



III. AFTERNOON 

Eight hours later. 

The full court is assembled, with Abgar, Cleonis, An- 
anias, and Attendants. Afterwards, Agamede. 

Abgar is seated at the end of the stone settle nearest the 
portico. His right arm rests on the hack of the seat, 
its hand supporting his head. His gaze is fixed upon 
the distant city, so as to leave discernible only the left 
side of his face. His soldierly short black hair and 
strong profile are accentuated by the eager forward 
thrusting of the neck. A flowing white chlamys is 
thrown aside from his left shoulder, revealing a 
severe military dress. The free hand rests upon 
and clasps the hilt of a sword suspended at the hip. 

Cleonis sits full front, a little removed from Abgar, on 
the settle, her hands folded before her, and her head 
resting somewhat wearily against the high back of 
the seat. Her garment is a peplus of azure wool. 

Ananias sits below her on the steps at her right, his gaze 
directed to Abgar. His attitude, that of interrupted 



Afternoon 

narration^ presents the right side oj his face and jorm 
profiled against the oleander leaves. A scroll lies 
open in his hands. 

The Slave-boy stands in waiting at some distance on the 
ground to the lejt oj Abgar, immediately behind 
whom stands his great Body Slave. 

In the middle background, grouped in the foliage, stand 
the Queen^s women in jresh garments oj various 
bright colours. 

Armed guards are stationed in the extreme background. 

The sojt light oj advancing dusk fills the garden, but the 
undulating plain seen through the trees, and the 
white walls oj the city, are sufjused with rich sun- 
light. 

Music oj lyres. The women are singing. 

Chorus 

^gina's foam is high and wild 
Where Pan immortal sits enisled; 
But thou and I with flying oar 
Seek Psyttaleia's sacred shore. 



The City 

42 

The City of the Violet Crown 
Well knows that rocky island's frown; 
But thou and I together learned 
What fires upon her altars burned. 

Oh, many a sail goes gleaming there 
Bound for some olive-garden fair; 
But thou and I made fast to her 
And found her cypress loveUer. 

The shrines of Aphrodite lift 
Their smoke in every village- rift ; 
But thou and I remote from man 
Propitiate the woodland Pan. 

[As the song ends, Cleonis waves dismissal 
to the women. 

Abgar 

More music while I think. Some martial air. 
There's one of Alexander's men. Sing that. 



Afternoon 
43 

Cleonis {speaking over-shoulder to the women) 

That song of Arbela. 

{To herselj.) 
Unsoothing sound ! 

Chorus 

I see the Macedonian's foes 
Where Zab, the fatal river, flows; 
A milHon, chariot and horse, 
And spearmen of the Persian's force 

Orontes and the Euxine gave, 
The Oxus and the Caspian wave; 
Jaxartes, Kashgar, Indus, far 
Swell the bright rushing tide of war ! 

I see the Persian innermost 
Of all his vast assembled host. 
Around him in protecting groups 
Legions of mercenary troops: 



The City 

44 

Melophori, and Mardian bows, 
Albanians, Carians interpose, 
With Indian elephants, between 
The monarch and his foe unseen. 

A score and five the nations are 
Preceded by the scythed car. 
And Cappadocia's cavalry 
For numbers like the waving sea. 

Who comes upon them? O'er the plain 
The Macedonian sweeps amain ! 
I see his phalanx solid-speared. . . • 

Abgar {arising suddenly) 

'Tis thus a world's won ! Alexander led 
But two-score thousand men, but them he led ! 
Ha, how the many- captained Persians ran 
Before that godhke youth ! 

\He unsheathes his sword and diagrams on the 
ground. 

Darius' centre, 



Afternoon 
45 

Bared of the Bactrian cohorts at his left 

Who would outflank the slantwise charging right 

Of Macedon, exposed both front and side 

To Alexander's horse and spearmen. Here 

Plunged in that son of PhiHp, whose assault 

Filled the great King with terror, so he fled 

Treading his crumbled empire in the dust. 

\He drops to his seat, taking jormer position. 
Yet Alexander and Darius both 
Are dead. And what avail the conqueror 
Issus and Arbela? — Do they comfort him 
Down there among the shades ? What victory 
Won Alexander that his naked soul 
May deck him with where dwelleth Socrates? 

[A pause. He turns, quietly, addressing Ananias. 
Conclude the Hebrew's letter, Ananias. 

Ananias (reading) 

"As to the part of your epistle which 
Concerns my going hence to visit you, 
Know that I have a mission to fulfil 



The City 

46 

In mine own city, and must here remain 
Till all its ends be satisfied. Yet you 
Of your infirmity shall know full cure, 
And those most dear to you have peace. 

Cleonis 



"Farewell." 



See, he doth promise healing ! Reads not more 
On any margin, or betwixt the lines. 
To indicate how such a joy may be? 

Ananias 
Nay, I have now read every word to you. 

Cleonis (bending forward) 

Hand me the letter. 

[Ananias arises, and gives her the scroll. 
Why, these very fines 
We did pass over Hghtly, they seem charged 
With hidden meaning. [She reads, thoughtfully. 

^'Abgar, forasmuch 



Afternoon 
47 

As ye believed on me whom ye knew not, 
Shall happiness be yours. For it is wrote 
Concerning me that they should not beheve 
Who have beheld, that those who dwell afar 
And see not might have faith and hfe abundant." 

See you not something there, O Abgar? 

Abgar 

Much. 

Did I not ask for music, hearing that? 

I shall be healed ! The ebbing springs of life 

Will flow again as full they flowed of yore ! 

My city, O my city ! thou shalt know 

Again the joyous tread of other days. 

When all thy booths and palaces and shrines 

With multitudes of helpless, longing folk 

First knew me theirs to build, protect, and love ! 

I have not yet resolved the Healer's words 
Into clear meaning; but their crystal soon 
In the still cup of contemplation may 



The City 

Give up its precious drug to heal our cares. 
What said he of it, Ananias? ''Shortly 
Should all be clear that's written in this scroll"? 

Ananias 

Those are the words, my lord, in giving me 
His answer spake the Nazarene. 

Abgar 

Consider. 
I offered him my realm's protection; peace; 
A sanctuary of philosophy; 

And a disciple not without an arm. \A pause. 

Now, more than ever, do I long to see him; 
What won my reverence now provokes my love. 
His city hates him. Oh, that he were here ! 

\He springs to his jeet, and paces up and down 
the dais. 

Ananias 

I think, my lord, he weighed all this, so firm 



Afternoon 
49 

His speech revealed him, as if all debate 

He, silent, had passed through at once forever. 

Abgar {eagerly) 

How well thou hast divined this sort of soul ! 
Planted upon his rock, he sees all else 
As drift and wreckage of the stormy seas 
That surge around him, yet can touch him not. 

There is but one decision for such man, 
And, after that, concession, compromise, 
Expediency — these enter not at all 
Into the fabric of his meditation. 
To such death is not. For untainted is 
The source of life, and solid is the rock. 
To those who go down in the trough upon 
Their own poor broken spar, that rock is hid 
With him upon it, and they call him dead. 
I will send other embassies to him — 
Not importuning him, but to have words 
To ponder on. Or, maybe, go myself, 

£ 



The City 

50 

For I already feel renewed within 

By the great soul of him who hath opposed me. 

Cleonis (approaching Abgar, and laying her hands 
in his) 

Uchomo, hast thou all the love for me 
That thou didst woo me with those perfect days 
Amid the cloves and laurels where the sea 
Flung its white arms among ^Egina's isles? 
Still the old love that bore me in our barque 
Far on those sunlit waters where but faint 
The cry of men, and even the gleam of sails, 
Came to us in our niche among the hills? 

Yes, yes, I know ! I ask to be assured 
By the old light rekindled in thine eyes. 

O Uchomo, the constancy of love 

Hath not performed its service until pain 

Doth weld both hearts inseparably. 

Not all 
At once to-day did I repeat to thee 
Of what our Ananias hath brought back. 



Afternoon 

Abgar 
I felt that more would come in love's own time. 

Cleonis {taking the linen jrom her bosom) 

This brought he back to thee with him. It bears 
The dying benediction of the Man. 

She who bestows it, lady Berenis, 
Invoked his heahng power upon its folds. 

Abgar 
His city slew him? 

Cleonis 
Took away his Hfe! 

Abgar (receiving the linen) 

Not that ! For he shall live forever here, 

And in the bosoms of philosophers. 

Such hfe shall grow and blossom, and bear fruit — 

Yea, here in mine own city shall it grow ! 

[A pause. He turns suddenly^ with outspread 
arms, and uplifted head. 



The City 

52 

I feel it now ! All through these withered veins 
I feel it bound and glow ! O hfe, Hfe, Hfe ! 

\He clasps Cleonis in his arms. 

[Voices at the gate. Enter jrom thence Aga- 
MEDE, exhausted. Her long, white gar- 
ment of the morning is stained and 
disarranged, and her grey hair is loose. 
She walks uncertainly towards the dais. 

[Cleonis, in surprise, runs and supports her 
in her embrace. 

Agamede {breathless) 
Yet not for this — this even — deem friendship vain, 
And sister a Hght name ! — Vow that to me ! 

Cleonis 

Sweet sister Agamede ! 

Abgar {to Slave-boy) 
Fetch her wine. 
[Boy brings wine, of which Agamede partakes. 
{Lifting his hands to her) 



Afternoon 
53 

Be sure of us, dear Agamede ! All 
Assembled here are bound to thee by love 
And thy long, tender years of care for us. 
The world is full of beauty, strength, and love ! 

[Cleonis leads Agamede to a seat, and sits 
beside her comfortingly. A pause, 

Agamede {to Cleonis) 

What words and looks are these from Uchomo? 

Oh, was it all a frightful dream that I 

Since dawn this day have fought with Nemesis? 

Cleonis 
That was thy dream, dear one. 

Abgar 

Some dream this was. 

Agamede 

Thou splendid youth ! What god hath wrought on thee 
Whilst I was dreaming? Came he hither, then, 
That GaHlean Healer long desired? 



The City 

54 

Abgar 

Thou seest me healed by him. We dream no more. 

Agamede {passing a hand over her eyes) 

Oh, but I dreamt not ! 

{Reluctantly) 

Abgar, of thy house 
One hath turned traitor and conspired with those 
Who long have wished thee ill. More, too, I find, 
O King: lords Umbar and Athmantides 
Have been beset by the wild populace 
And are imprisoned by them in the Tower. 

Abgar 
How learn you this? 

Agamede 

Fresh from those scenes I come. 

Cleonis and Abgar 
What ! From the city thou ? 



Afternoon 
55 

Cleonis 

What stains are these? 
What woe hath overtaken thee? 

Abgar 

Spare not. 

A great peace dwells in this abode. Not thou, 
O wife of Glaucon, canst bring anguish here, 
Nor bow our hearts with any woe but thine ; 
On which, if aught there be, the kingdom shall 
Be spent for remedies. Speak slowly all. 

Agamede 

It is my woe, mine own famihar woe 
As I had learned it in forgotten ages. 
Two kinds of woe which I had known before 
Shall never seem so old a woe as this; 
And there is ransom from all other kinds. 
When we go back into the earth ; but this, 
Once known, shall be a terror in the soul 
And in Elysium even cloud it o'er 
With memories that Lethe cannot quell ! 



The City 

56 

Ananias 
'Twere well to speak directly of this matter. 

Agamede {to Abgar) 

Forgive, O Abgar, first, that how and why 

I came into the city, or with whom, 

I now conceal. Let it suffice that one 

I followed fleeing thither who confessed, 

In part because I persecuted so. 

In part that, sure of their complete design, 

The traitors fear not now if it be known. 

What I found in the city first I tell: 

Of all your officers of pubHc works 

Who build and broaden, cleanse and sweep away. 

These twain have most incurred the rabble's wrath, 

The stewards Umbar and Athmantides ; 

Because their duties — as chief overseers 

Of the new sewers — do seem sacrilege 

In that the city's soil so deep is dug 

That antique gods of stone, once worshipped there 



Afternoon 
57 

By the old Syrian fathers of the folk, 

Have been disturbed in their forgotten slumbers. 

And certain who oppose themselves to all 

The strange reforms that are pushed forward so 

Have used this pretext of indignant gods 

To stir the people and arrest the works. 

Abgar 

How comes it DeHus lets the mob prevail? 
Where is Belarion that such passion rules? 

Agamede 

Belarion 'tis — I choke to say his name ! — 
Who stirs them to revenge. 

Abgar 

Athmantides 
And Umbar have their sovereign's instant care. 
My chariot and guard within an hour 
Shall bear me to Edessa. 

{To Slave-boy) 

Hasten, boy; 



The City 

58 

Bid Moschus have the new Arabians combed, 
And all prepared for travel in the hour. 

[Exit Slave- BOY. 
What ! is it thus, my city, whom these dreams 
Have glorified with perfectness? And ye, 
O people of my ceaseless watch and care. 
Could ye not be content a httle while 
Till my poor body was made sound for you? 

Cleonis {in pain) 
Uchomo, I forbid thee leave our sight ! 

Ananias 
Nay, Abgar, go not ! 

Cleonis 

Thou wilt straight undo 
All the slow betterment of these long weeks. 

Ananias 

My word commands, being given authority. 
The seal I bear persuades with eloquence. 



Afternoon 
59 

Abgar (sitting. He looks towards the city) 

I am the King. From my deliberation, 
Revolved in silence when the world's asleep, 
I am not easy moved by hate or love, 
Nor do I rise by impulse to bold deeds; 
But it hath ever been my studious care 
So ripened for emergency to be 
That through my meditations naught can fall 
I may not welcome with the fittest deed. 

Cleonis 
Yet go not ! Oh, thou knowest not ! 

Ananias 

Our tongues 
Till now were justified in secrecy. 

I must inform you, Abgar, that a band 

Of impious men who fear nor god nor man 

Plot for your Hfe. A treble guard is placed 

Around these walls lest any of their spies 

Steal to you unperceived; while yonder now 

Within the city trusty officers 



The City 

60 

Under the Prefect Mithradates' eye 
Take evidence to blot out that perfidy. 

Agamede 

For days hath nested 'twixt these garden walls 

A withered and implacable Erinys 

Ready to give the signal for assault. 

It wanted only Ananias' presence 

To ripen it, and they intend this night 

With all the force B clarion can assemble 

To make attack. 'Tis no mere mutiny. 

Beginning such, the poison hath been spread 

Till now a revolution threatens all. 

This flew I back to tell the sentinels 

And Ananias' guard which paces here. 

Cleonis {as though suddenly enlightened) 
Where is Stilbe? 

Agamede {shrinking) 

There is no Stilbe more. 



Afternoon 
6i 

Abgar {placing one hand out upon the heads oj the two 
women, who have drawn together, and with the 
other inviting Ananias up to a seat beside him) 

Peace, peace ! They have but once to see their King 
Strong as of old, and riding with his guard ! 

(To a Slave) 
Ho, Imbros, run to Moschus and make speed 
With preparations for departure. Standards, 
Torches and all the trappings of the mews 
Provide my escort. See all busy. Thou, 

(To his Body Slave) 
Gyges, make ready the new armour — that 
Tiberius had forged and sent to me 
From Capri. — They will cheer the casque of gold. 

[Exit Slaves. 
You, faithful friends, and thou, Cleonis, hearken. 

[During the following, the scene gradually dark- 
ens till the garden is left entirely in the dusk. 
Then a few stars shine through the trees, and 
the moon begins to rise. 



The City 

62 

Last night, to complement two wondrous dreams 
Had on the two preceding nights, there came 
A third, most vivid, and most wonderful. 

In the first vision like to this I dreamed: 

I stood upon a height. Spread out below. 

Dark, silent, shapeless, a vast city — dead — 

Where in far ages of this furrowed world 

Strong men and women took their taste of Hfe. 

All now was desolation absolute; 

And through that wreck of fortress, mart and fane, 

And fallen mausoleum crowded o'er 

With characters for evermore unread. 

Only the wind's soft hands went up and down 

Scattering the obliterative sands. 

I, led in trance by shapes invisible, 

Approached a temple's splendid architrave 

Half sunk in sod betwixt its columns' bases, 

And there by sudden divination read 

The deep-cut legend of that awful gate: 

APPEASE WITH SACRIFICE THE UNKNOWN POWERS. 



Afternoon 

Between the roofless, tottering pillars there 

A countless flock had fed the holocaust — 

Numberless innocents drenched the steaming altars, 

Outpouring their propitiative blood. 

And prayers and tears and cringings of a world 

Through them did seek the appeasing way — in 

vain. 
And the black night came down upon my dream. 

Next night I found me in a twiht place 

Wherein the same compelHng, gentle hands 

Held me. And from mine eminence I saw 

A newer city build ed on Hke dust — 

A trodden sand that could afford to wait. 

Streets hummed, and multitudes on multitudes 

Along their river-quays, in highways broad, 

Or up their Httle ramifying lanes. 

Unceasing plied their single life away. 

They toiled, or played, or fought, or sued the gods. 

Absorbed each in his own peculiar lust. 

As if there were no morrow watching them ; 



The City 

64 

Yet each was happier in the morrow- dream 
Than ever in all achieved yesterdays. 

I was so high above them as to see 

Their httle deeds and mean anxieties, 

Wholly, as one surveys a mound of ants 

At their laborious atom industries. 

Above them spread the splendid heavens filled 

With palpitating sunlight; all around, 

The sources inexhaustible of hfe, 

And plenitudes of peace. But there they swarmed. 

Striving — some bravely ; offering — some in truth ; 

But all with inward thought and eyes on earth. 

And so I saw them grow, and grieve, and die. 

And as I looked, I saw a man who long 

In upward meditation on his roof 

Sat all alone, communing with his soul. 

And he arose, and presently went down, 

Down in the long black streets among his kind. 

And there with patience taught them steadfastly. 



Afternoon 
65 

But, for the restless souls he made in them, 

They turned and slew him and went on their ways. 

And a great fog crept up and covered all. 

Again the third time I was Hfted up. 

A mighty, hving, beautiful walled town, 

A-wave with trees, lay shining on the plain. 

And underneath her walls a river gHded 

Safe bearing her full many a peaceful sail. 

And there Hved folk who all day worked and sang, 

And folk that to and fro sped silently; 

And here and there some sat apart and thought. 

From all whom throbbed a joy in unison 

With the warm earth and her enfolding heavens; 

Through all, the strong, perpetual streams of Hfe 

That through the universe unceasing flow. 

And this dream ended not with cloud or mist. 

But slow receded in its radiance 

Till it grew small as towers and sails and stream 

That whiten yonder to the rising moon. 

And as it went I heard a voice that said: 



The City 

66 

"Thou, Abgar, art the King of cities three: 
The Past, the Present, and the Yet-to- Come. 
Out of the Past the Present by slow pain 
And undiscerning upward agonies ; 
Out of the Present, by as many throes, 
The city of Celestial Harmony." 

Then faded all, and I awoke and saw 
Through the wide window of my prison here 
My city gleaming on its tree-plumed levels, 
And waiting in its troubled sleep — for me ! 

Fear not for me : I go unto the city. 

[Cleonis clings to Abgar's neck. He^ erecty 
the left arm holding Cleonis, the right 
pointing to the city which is now full in 
the light of the risen moon. 

[The distant noise of preparation for depar- 
ture fills the garden with sound. 



Evening 
67 



IV. EVENING 

An hour later. 

The only light is that oj the moon, which enfilades the 
little open spaces among the leaves and along the 
ground, and shines full over the open country beyond 
the garden. 

The garden is empty oj people. There are sounds oj 
stamping hoojs, shouted orders, hurried jootsteps, 
within the palace and beyond the wall. In the 
pauses oj these sounds jar in the distance jrom the 
direction oj the city come indistinct murmurs like 
human cries. Presently a jaint bugle- call thrice re- 
peated. The sounds decrease. 

Agamede and Cleonis in the shadow oj the portico, 
Agamede stands with arms stretched out towards 
the oleanders, and is sojtly singing. 

Agamede 

Grow, grow, thou little tree, 
His body at the roots of thee; 



The City 

68 

Since last year's loveliness in death 
The Uving beauty nourisheth. 

Bloom, bloom, thou Httle tree, 
Thy roots around the heart of me; 
Thou canst not blow too white and fair 
From all the sweetness hidden there. 

Die, die, thou little tree, 
And be as all sweet things must be; 
Deep where thy petals drift I, too, 
Would rest the changing seasons through. 

Cleonis 

Let us sit here and wait for Uchomo. 

\They sit on the steps oj the portico. 
These last strange quiet moments spent with thee 
Have wrought some change in me, I know not what. 
Whereas I was half-girl, this day of storm, 
O woman of sorrow, hath made me calm as thou; 
Hath shown me heights and deeps, and swallowed up 
All fear of death or Hfe. We are secure. 



Evening 
69 

Agamede 

Not in an hour was wrought this change in thee. 
Thyself hast wrought it day by day in toil 
For what thou lovest, forgetting what thou art. 
These final moments show thyself to thee. 

Cleonis 

Thou hast known all these things for many years. 

[Enter Abgar, armed, wearing his golden hel- 
met. 

[He bends over Cleonis, who arises and joins 
him. They descend to the garden. 

[Agamede remains on the steps a moment, her 
hands extended as in blessing towards the 
receding pair, then steals into the palace. 

Abgar 

Dost thou, love, feel a strange, new sense of peace? 

To me it is as if another air 

Had suddenly enveloped our sad earth. 



The City 

70 

Cleonis 
The atmosphere of oceans tranquillized. 

Abgar 

Wherein our barque doth move on steadily 
As by some other force than chance of winds. 

Cleonis 

In the old days when far we searched the seas 
In our Hght-skimming pinnace, thou and I, 
Sometimes it bended in and out the isles 
And no wind seemed to have the care of it. 
Then thought I, Hke a fooHsh, dreaming girl, 
That beautiful, strong hands beneath us bore 
Our barque of love. 

We have lived inland long. 

Abgar 

To me there is no inland, having thee ! 
Our love's a golden sea set thick with green 
And aromatic islands whose shores know 



Evening 
71 

Such wreckage only as bright, tide-plucked flowers 
That grow, unguessed, too deep for touch of storm. 

Come to our garden-seat. The moment nears 
When we must for a little while be parted. 

[They ?nounf the dais and sit. 

[A pause, during which the murmur jrom the 
city is renewed. 
He said that shortly all should be made clear. 
I think his words grow plainer to me, yet . . . 
Is there no other way our world will learn ? 

Cleonis 

Only through abnegation's sacrifice; 

Only renouncement, that shall raise dead hearts. 

None may believe who have beheld, because 

This mortal vision makes them blind of soul. 

Men may not see with soul and body both: 

This now I see who was till now one bhnd. 

And under the charm of fear. The man spake well. 



The City 

72 

Abgar 

Not distance, nor yet death, shall separate 
The souls of those whose vision is made clear. 
Lo, he abideth with us evermore 
Who would not come to us the way of flesh, 
And in the spirit makes us whole. 

That mind 
Hath turned my course of longing utterly: 
I longed for healing only of this flesh 
That I might serve my state — asked not for more ; 
Yet how in his refusal he transcends 
My widest prayer ! 

Cleonis 

*' Of your infirmity 
Shall you know yet full cure; and those have peace 
Who are most dear to you." 

That peace is here. 

Abgar 

O love, I never saw thee till this hour 



Evening 
73 

So beautiful ! How all the world is changed ! 
Let us grow old together in this way. 

Cleonis 
Always together, well or ill betide: 
Promise me this, O love — till death's own hour ! 

Abgar 
Yea ! For no ill can ever meet us so ! 

[Sound oj the chariot at the gate. 

Cleonis 
I have thy promise. Listen, at yon gate 
Moschus is standing with the chariot. 
I go with thee ! Oh, never, never apart ! 

Abgar 
I will return to thee to-morrow, love. 
Stay me not thus; the numbered moments fly. 
Knowest thou not I am made strong for this? 

Cleonis (clinging to him) 
But thou hast said ill cannot meet us so. 
Together, always, even to the hour of death 1 



The City 

74 

Abgar 

Yea, that I know ! Come, then. Not all earth's power 
Shall snatch us twain asunder. To the city 1 

Cleonis 

It is the promise: Peace and Hfe abundant. 

[They descend to the ground, and are inter- 
rupted in their exit by the Body Slave, 
who enters, running, jrom the palace. 

Slave 

Flee, flee ! Armed bands of thrice our guard's full 

strength 
Ride here ! 

[He runs centre, mounting the dais and shading 
his eyes towards the city. 
I see their helmets on the plain. 
O King, your chariot quick ! and southward turn : 
Thapsacus is our ancient ally. Flee ! 
That friendly city may be reached in safety. 
One of her trading craft lies on the river 



Evening 
75 

Waiting for dawn to slip her anchorage. 
Moschus and I will bear you with the Queen 
Swift charioting thither. 

Abgar 

To Thapsacus, 
To the old, noble town where Xenophon 
With the Ten Thousand crossed Euphrates* flood, 
I, fleeing at night away from foes unseen? 

[He mounts the dais, his arm still encircling 
Cleonis. They look towards the city. 
Return thou to thy duty at the postern, 
And fortify thy heart with the calm night. 
The guards without are ready; we within 
Are confident and undisturbed. [Exit Slave. 

Cleonis 

Look, love, 

How beautiful ! Along that road of gold 

Which in and out among the new-sown fields 

Mocks with its shining course the winding river, 



The City 

76 

They sparkle like heroic panoplies, 

With helmet, shield, and spear beneath the moon. 

Abgar 

It is, indeed, most beautiful and strange. 

\They stand some moments in silence^ facing 
the city and the open country^ and watch- 
ing the advance of the troops. Again 
the sullen murmur of the city. Twice or 
thrice Cleonis lifts her hand to the scene 
and turns her head half round to Abgar. 
\The sound of galloping hoofs grows near. 
The horses at the gate paw and neigh. 
There are movements among the guard, 
and within the palace. 
[A red light flares from one end of the city. 
O city ! many a time and oft have I 
Preserved thy peace through toil and bitter pain, 
Turning away the foeman from thy gates ! 
Oh, I have loved with yearnings infinite 
Even as a father pitieth his child I 



Evening 
77 

But what can save thee from thyself? Not love. 

What needest thou? What wilt thou of me more? 

My hfe? Can that avail thee in the end? 

If mortal vision make thee blind of soul 

Can death — can that appease, and bring thee sight ? 

[There is an onset at the gate. 

[Enter women from the left, flying into the palace. 

First Woman 
Flee, flee! 

Second Woman 
There's murder at the gate ! 

Third Woman 

Oh, flee ! 

[The gate hursts open, hut is still dej ended. 

The flighting is along the wall. 

[Enter Ananias jrom the gate, wounded, 

Ananias 

Where's Uchomo? Where's Cleonis? Where's my 
King? 



The City 

78 

We cannot hold them ofF. They beat us down 
Like sudden whirlwinds. Oh, I think I die. 

[Cleonis tears a strip from her robe; theUy 
as if by a jortunate recollection, plucks 
the square of linen from the bosom of 
Abgar, and binds it over the wound with 
the strip. 
Oh, cowardly to yield thee up a day 
From my long watchful care ! Oh, base to turn, 
When needed most, even at thy own command ! 

Abgar (supporting him tenderly) 

Dear friend, thou art the other side the loom. 
Thou canst not see what wondrous web is wrought 
By this bhnd weaver Fate ! All's well with us. 

Ananias 

Two months — two months away from thee ! Indeed 
There was delay — the mountain roads were rough. 
But — pray, forgive me — this I spake not of : 
I made not haste sufficient. 



Evening 
79 

Thanks, dear Queen. 
Your touch is like my Chloe's. 

This, see thou — 
It was among the hills of Lebanon 
We met the robbers — on our homeward journey. 
I had a wound of them. And even now 
It breaks afresh — before Belarion's blade. 
Oh . . . oh . . . forgive me, Queen, I brought not 

back . . . 
Brought not . . . the Healer. ... All I could ... I 
did. 

\He jails J dying, into the arms of Abgar, who 
lays him gently upon the dais at his jeet 
[The conflict ends suddenly. 

Voice oj Stilbe 

The gate ! The gate ! Edessa shall be free ! 

[Belarion bursts through the gate with soldiers, 
in the midst oj whom, home alojt on the 
shoulders oj slaves, enter Stilbe clothed 
in white and gold, and^ hearing garlands. 



The City 

80 

Stilbe 

Hear Ares ! Spilth of Persian vintages, 
And splendid altar-garlands, laurel and rose ! 
Thighs of a thousand bulls, great Artemis ! 

\In passing, flings a garland to Abgar. 
Thy roses I return thus, Uchomo ! 

[She is home laughing across the garden. 
Ha, but once more Edessa shall be gay ! 
Yet will I give command that every Spring 
One night my women shall remember thee, 
O Queen, with love-songs in the garden here. 

[Exit into the palace. 

[The soldiers oj Belarion fill the scene. Some 
with torches pass into the palace, as 
though to take possession. In the midst 
oj them, enter the Physician, in terror. 

Physician 

Drive me not thus, I say. 'Tis ill respect 
To one of my position. {Catching sight oj Abgar.) 

O dear King ! 



\ Evening 

8i 

Speak not reproachfully that I did fail 

To notify Antigonus and John. 

I met an ancient actor on the road 

Who read a trilogy of ^schylus ; 

And ''Prove thyself the Paion of this dread," 

So ran the line, on which I, pondering, came. . . . 

A Soldier {urging him on) 

Come, thou old prattler, show us to the treasure. 

[Exeunt^ into the palace. 

Belarion 

The hour's come round. Here, brave guards of 

Edessa ! 
Looks he too frail to fight and live like us. 
He there of the bright eye and crimson cheek? 
'Tis fine Hfe in a garden with a woman ! 
His creatures in the city can pull down 
And build up as he bids them, spite of all 
The rites and usages of gods and men ! 

Behold the man. What shall we do with him? 



The City 

82 

Soldiers 
Kill him! 

Belarion 

Ay, kill him ! But not instantly. 
Let him, and her who styles herself our Queen — 
The Greek wench there — let them acquit them- 
selves. 
What wordj King? 

[In advancing, he stumbles over the dead body 
oj Ananias. 

Ah, the old dog's hcked his last ! 

Abgar 

No word have I for thee to pluck at, thou 

Who murderest beauty, truth, and all fair things ! 

No word have I ; but o 'er that faithful man 

Who gave his Hfe to cure his King's unrest, 

Have I a more than word for thee. That's death ! 

[He steps jorward quickly, unsheathing his 
blade, and strikes Belarion a mortal blow, 

[Belarion jails , groaning. 



Evening 

Belarion 

Up there, ye cowards ! See my vengeance full ! 

\He dies. 

[Abgar, defended at the rear by the stone settle, 
protects himself and Cleonis during an 
attack of the soldiers, who fall hack as if in 
awe of his commanding front. 

[During the pause Agamede, in silence, forces 
her way through the ranks, and joins 
Cleonis and Abgar on the dais. 



Cleonis {pointing to the body of Ananias) 

"And those most dear to you have peace." 

Thy blade ! 
[Abgar hesitates, then yields her his unsheathed 
sword. She lightly steps downward and 
lays it upon the body of Ananias, then 
returns to Abgar, and they stand defence- 
less j facing the soldiers. 



The City 

Abgar (half turning towards the city^ from which the 
red flame breaks ajresh and irradiates his helmet 
oj gold) 

Together, love, we go unto the city ! 



OCTAVES IN AN OXFORD GARDEN 



87 



OCTAVES IN AN OXFORD GARDEN 

I 

The day is like a sabbath in a swoon. Wadham 

Slow in September's blue go fair cloud-things 
Poising aslant upon their charmed wings, 

Stilled to the last faint backward smiles of June. 

Softly I tread, and with repentant shoon, 
Half fearfully in sweet imaginings. 
Where broods, like courtyard of departed kings, 

The old Quadrangle paved with afternoon. 

II 

No footfall sounds within the empty hall; 

No echoes people corridor and stair; 

The sunHght slumbers on the silent square, 
Forgetful of slow shadows by the wall. 
Yon is the passage where low lights do fall 

And linger longest (I have watched them there) 

Beyond which you will find a spot most fair, 
A comfortable and a holy spot withal. 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 



ni 



There dwells the very soul of quietness, 
Seclusion's spirit deep within the green, 
Secure from fame as some unsung demesne 

In far Ionian hills. There waits to bless, 

With her all-heahng, mother- soft caress. 
The Sympathy of Trees, that friend unseen. 
Soother of moods, on whom all hearts do lean 

Sooner or later, and their cares confess. 



IV 

As one whose road winds upward turns his face 
Unto the valleys where he late hath stood. 
Leaning upon his staff in peace to brood 

On many a beauty of the distant place. 

So I in this cool garden pause a space, 
Reviewing many things in many a mood, 
Accumulating friends in soHtude 

From the assembly of my thoughts and days. 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
89 



As here among the well- remembering boughs 
Where every leaf is tongue to ancient breath, 
Speech of the yesteryears forgathereth, 

And all the winds are long-fulfilled vows — 

So from of old those ringing names arouse 
A whispering in the foHate shades of death 
Where History her golden rosary saith, 

Glowing, the light of Memory on her brows. 



VI 

What hath she uttered that should make me dread — 
That brown-robed Abbess with her beads soft-told 
Who hath her seat upon the fragrant mould 

And sees the ghding Centuries perfected? 

Naught. Only good things saying, she, with head 
Bowed to her task submissively, doth fold 
An era by for every bead of gold, 

And smileth on the glory of the Dead. 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 

90 

VII 

Here did Wren make himself a student home 

Or e'er he made a name that England loves. 

I wonder, as he watched yon chapel doves 
If he did have some foresight of that dome 
On Lud's old Hill where now their coveys come, 

With them that bear his name, in lofty coves. 

I wonder if this straying shadow moves 
Adown the wall as then he saw it roam. 



vin 

Blake hither brought his book — to con the sky, 
Commanding squadrons of the upper seas 
That streamed, impatient of Time's slow degrees, 

Their pennoned fleets of phantasy on high. 

O wing-shod Time, that we should bid thee fly ! 
Five hundred years good Bishop Wykeham's trees 
Down there at New have known such lads as these, 

And they are patient still and standing by. 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
91 

IX 

All things seem ordered sweetly in the Nature^ s 

calm, Calmness 

Full measure of the even-marching years. 

This elm I love hath never fought with fears 
And sickening heartbreak ; but the steady psalm 
Of one who trusts not vainly issues from 

His quiet depth — such psalm as lifts and cheers 

Each tiny stalk or tender blade that rears 
A nostril to the breeze-bestowM balm. 



Primrose, and Phlox, and Clytie (as I call 
The lady Sunflower, never to forget 
The faithful nymph she was — ah, yes, is yet !), 

These sway unto its heartsome rise-and-fall 

With ivies undulating up the wall; 
And thought, to inarticulate rhythm set, 
Joins harmony, while far the World's vain fret 

And discord dreamwise vanish from it all. 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 

92 

XI 

Soon will sweet Primrose be a faded crone, 
Yet seeks she now nor flattery nor fame; 
And Phlox upon the morrow lays no claim 

When her shed bloom shall be around her blown. 

This Beech, 'neath whom their many kindred shone 
As fair, hath ne'er heard any wish a name, 
And even he hath reckoned it no shame 

To live in silence and to pass unknown. 

XII 

This is my lost inheritance. I look Lost 

With brotherUest affections yearning Inheritance 

forth 
To the flower-bearing sod. Oh, what is worth 

The strange estate of flesh I strangely took? 

In the soft soil the garden breezes shook 

From the wall chink but now, there's measure of earth 
To match my body's dust when its re-birth 

To sod restores old functions I forsook. 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
93 

XIII 

Strange that a sod for just a thrill or Vicissitude 

two 

Should ever be seduced into the round 

Of change wherein its present state is found 
In this my form ! forsake its quiet, true 
And fruitfullest retirement to go through 

The heat, the strain, the languor, and the wound ! 

Forget soft rain to hear the stormier sound, 
Exchange for burning tears its peaceful dew ! 

XIV 

It was the lip of murmuring Thames Old Song 

along ^^^ ^ ^^'^^^ 

When new lights sought the wood all strangely fair, 

Such quiet hghts as saints transfigured wear 
In minster windows crept the glades among. 
And far as from some hazy hill, yet strong, 

Methought an upland shepherd piped it there, 

Rousing a silvern echo in her lair: 
^^ Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song" 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 

94 

XV 

My Spenser lay the dewy grass upon, 
His pages shone before me as I read — 
Like the gold daisies gleaming round his bed 

His lantern verses upward to me shone. 

End never yet his song's rich note hath known; 
''Sweet Thames" runs softly by his burthen sped, 
And shall, while hymns are sung and prayers are said, 

Low chanting his glad Prothalamion. 

XVI 

I NEVER thought until one night i' the The Same 

dark ^^y 

When one I love was on the labouring seas, 

How constantly the stars' white companies 
Stand watch o'er all — yea, when horizons stark 
Are swept of every other sign and mark 

So it were utmost desert but for these. 

(And then, I think, my spirit found its knees 
And asked them to guide well my dear one's barque.) 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
95 

XVII 

It is the same sky over sea and land : Constancy 

The same pure stars attend great London 

town 
That tremble where the Channel thunders down; 

'Tis we that vary, running on the strand. 

Life bounds no fresher from the eternal hand 
Here in the Wadham branches than out yon 
Where blurs the dusty highway wide and wan : 

Good is within all, having all things planned. 

XVIII 

There is a picture — you have seen Ford Madox 
.. r, . Brown'' s "Christ 

washing the 
The Master at unwilUng Peter's p^^i qj p^ter " 

feet 
Ennobhng evermore and making sweet 
Each humble service wrought with mind aloft. 
Such mystic splendour shines serene and soft 

('Twas dreamt out through long years and made com- 
plete 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 

96 

From visions ripe) that, turning thence, we greet 
A new world, where dull conscious self is dofift. 

XIX 

He who this limned is gone. They treasure The 
g^jjj Absence 

The wooden wafer once he loved to hold 

Which (can we question?) now his hand is mould 
Yearns ever for his touch of tender skill. 
This ochre, longs it not to meet his will 

About the head of Jesus aureoled? 

And that sad patch of umber some shght fold 
Of Peter's garment would so gladly fill ! 

XX 

Even so our fancies' colours, keen of yore. 
When one we love lays by this earth- constraint, 
Upon our palettes do wax dull and faint, 

Fulfilling not commissions first they bore. 

For he is gone, and never holy lore 
Nor shining nimbus of transfigured saint 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
97 

May anywhere the fragment ochre paint; 
And the rich umber waits for evermore. 

XXI 

One time from that grey close I did St, PauVs 

emerge 

Wherethrough I had been toiHng, and to me, 

Like some benignant rock above the sea, 
St. Paul's great brow above the mist and surge 
Loomed kindly, and methought did kindly urge 

All men up to it, till there came to be 

A hush on hearts, a deep tranquillity 
Of healing virtue, round the minster's verge. 

XXII 

Thus Friendship. As a sacred citadel 
Above the hurrying crowd of men it towers; 
There in or sun or frost, or shine or showers, 

Invites to worship with no beating bell. 

This world's a city, and it loves full well 
The mid-street sanctuary that is ours 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 

Whither to steal away renewing powers 
Whose sources only at that Altar dwell. 

XXIII 

Some dust of Eden eddies round us yet. Bust 0] 

Some clay o' the Garden, clinging in t.aen 

the breast, 

Down near the heart yet bides unmanifest. 
Last eve in gardens strange to me I let 
The path lead far; and, lo, my vision met 

Old, forfeit hopes. I, as on homeward quest, 

By recognizing trees was bidden rest. 
And pitying leaves looked down and sighed, "Forget." 

XXIV 

To one tired heart I said : If it be true Restoration 
That, in the sad much- winding of your 

ways. 
Your thread is broken out of other days, 
And you know not what joy is lost to you, 
I pray you, turn aside awhile and through 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
99 

This quiet garden think on some old place 
Dear to the child you were, and that loved face 
That once in many a labyrinth was your clew. 

XXV 

Fair crystal cups are dug from earth's Roman Glass- 

, , ^ ware pre- 

«1^ ^^^^^' served in the 

Shattered but lovely; for, at price Ashmolean 

of all 

Their shameful exile from the banquet-hall. 
They have been bargaining beauties from the dust. 
So, dig my Ufe but deep enough, you must 

Find broken friendships round its inner wall — 
Which once my careless hand let shp and fall — 
Brave with faint memories, rich in rainbow-rust. 

XXVI 

Tell them, sweet evening breeze poised Lije's 

, Usurpation 

here, no less 

I love their memory whom thou goest to greet 

Out there at heaven's gate, but that I meet 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 



lOO 



Less oft the idle thoughts of old distress. 

Tell them the thought of them still lives to bless, 
But since I learned how much, despite defeat. 
My life demands that I shall make complete, 

I must yield up my cherished loneHness. 

XXVII 

Something of sorrow am I not denied, — Traces 

Share of the earth's old, universal pain 
I own, — though but as hillsides own the rain. 

Or soHd sands the long wave's stroking side. 

Still, though no rains upon the steep may bide, 
And harmlessly the sea- floods rise and wane, 
The downward torrent-traces do remain. 

And sands bear record of the sedulous tide. 

XXVIII 

Before an inn hearth's tale-begetting flame. The One 
Or sooth, or fable, yielded of the store Flower 
A white old man from perilous country bore, 

I heard of a strange tree without a name 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 

lOI 

Whose shade the brinks of fuming gulfs did claim 
And the precipitous torrents of that shore. 
Beauteous and straight it was, and uniflore 

With purest bud that e'er to blossom came. 

XXIX 

As those great petals burst asunder there 
A wondrous fragrance on the breeze was fanned, 
Solace unique of that unfriendly land 

Wafted remote along the treasuring air. 

But then, the old man said with trembhng care, 
A Httle raising his blue, withered hand, 
"The flower droops straightway ere it doth expand, 

And never another bloom that tree may bear." 

XXX 

Oh, sometimes, in the years since then, I too 
Through dangerous and deserted lands have wended, 
And many a stark and chasmy steep descended 

Which crumbHng cataracts shed their vapour through. 

But where such lone, mysterious blossom grew 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 



I02 

I have not sought to learn, by one more splendid 
Along the dimmest verges close attended — 
The all-enfolding, deathless love of you ! 

XXXI 

Early at eve on Onchan Head, because Separation 

The crimson lustre was upon the bay. 

And much bright melody began to sway 
Upward from gay pavihons, and there was 
None there to speak with in the music's pause, 

I sickened of the glory and turned away. 

Oh, that red sun had sealed a perfect day 
Had I but heard your low, sweet laugh's applause ! 

XXXII 

He is no lover of the sea who loses 
Sound of her voices, inland wandering. 
Still should her old melodious mystery spring 

Around him, wend he wheresoe'er he chooses; 

And so within me rhythmic Hfe refuses 



Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
103 

By any other pulse than yours to swing, 
Far from your friendship's ocean though I sing 
Where the hills tire and the rough pathway bruises. 

XXXIII 

A great nelumbo heavy on the breast 

Of heaven's tranquil lake must be the moon 
Above this garden in the still night's noon 

Bending the gold of her refulgent crest. 

Thus to the surface of these days of rest 
Through all my absent idlesse, late and soon, 
The thought of you doth blossom and the boon 

Of the dear face that waits me down the West. 



SONNETS 



Sonnets 



107 
SONNETS 

LIFE'S TAVERN 

Night-refuge, set aloft this travelled hill, 

Tis deemed by many a lodger but an inn; 
Others look round them better and scarce fill 

Their first cup ere its mystery doth begin, 
And they are led by some divine desire 

Where, midmost of an inner room, there bends 
Clear flame on golden altar, to which fire 

A v^ide-eyed vestal changelessly attends. 
And most, so led, have joy to serve that light 

And with the jealous priestess vigil keep; 
But woe to any wearying neophyte. 

And woe to him who serves with eyes of sleep: 
To such is she more bitter than to those 
On whom, unlit, her doors forever close ! 



Sonnets 

1 08 



SULTAN'S BREAD 

Remote behind the Sultan's palace wall 
That silent rises out of teeming Fez, 
A foreign guest, who oft broke bread there, says 

One day at food a morsel was let fall; 

And Abd-ul, keen of eye, did gently call 

Devout slaves to restore the sUghted shred — 
So prized in his religion is mere bread 

To the great lord of that imperial hall. 

Up to the table of this Hfe we sit, 
With sultan some, and some with tribesman placed. 
The fare is wheat or barley on our plate, 

And as we break the brittle loaf of it 

'Tis well to think what fragments we do waste 
Which our companions may deem consecrate. 



Sonnets 
109 

FAILURES 

They bear no laurels on their sunless brows, 

Nor aught within their pale hands as they go; 

They look as men accustomed to the slow 
And level onward course 'neath drooping boughs. 
Who may these be no trumpet doth arouse, 

These of the dark processionals of woe, 

Unpraised, unblamed, but whom sad Acheron's flow 
Monotonously lulls to leaden drowse? 
These are the Failures. Clutched by circumstance. 

They were — say not too weak ! — too ready prey 
To their own fear, whose fixM gorgon glance 

Made them as stone for aught of great essay ; — 
Or else they nodded when their Master-Chance 

Wound his one signal, and went on his way. 



Sonnets 

no 



''AND WOMEN MUST WEEP" 

I HEARD a woman sobbing in the night 
Against a casement high. And, as she cried, 
Our heartless world's deliberate homicide, 
Our tragic badinage, our mortal slight 
Of primal claims, and the remorseless plight 
Of the poor I faced there, rigid, open-eyed. 
Across the unechoing street in silence died 
Her weary moaning: Whether in her sight 
Some star appeared to soothe her present pain 
With memories sweet, or quiet sleep's strong hand 
Blunted her keen- edged woe, or other fear 
Came smothering down too close for sob or tear, 
I could not guess ; — some Fate may understand 
That spins unseen her endless umber skein. 



Sonnets 
III 



GOLDEN ROD 

Doubtless 'twas here we walked but yesterday, 
Seeing not any beauty save the green 
Of meadows, or, where slipt the brook between, 

A ribbon of blue and silver; yet the way 

Is strange: in golden paths I seem astray. 
Do you remember, comrade, to have seen 
Aught forward in these meadows that should mean 

A culmination in such fair display? 

We noticed not the humble stalks amid 
The many roadside grasses ; but, it seems, 
They were preparing this ! And, when their dreams 

Were ripe for doing, they could no more be hid 
Than golden thoughts that bloom to action when 
Their hearts make heroes out of common men. 



Sonnets 

112 

OCTOBER 

The maples their old sumptuous hues resume 
Around the woodland pool's bright glass, and strong 
The year's blue incense and recession- song 

Sweep over me their music and perfume. 

Dear Earth, that I reproached thee in my gloom 
I would forget, as thou forgott'st; I long 
To make redress for such a fihal wrong 

And praise thee now for all thy ruddy bloom ! 

So fond a mother to be used so ill ! 
Yet this poor heart of mine hath ever been 
Prey to its own unwarranted alarms — 

Shall fret, and beg forgiveness so, until 
Thou fold my thankless body warmly in, 
And draw me back into thy loving arms. 



Sonnets 
"3 

WITH A COPY OF THE MONA LISA 

'Tis said of Mona Lisa, that those years 
She gave us that we might behold her face 
In all its indefinable rare grace, 

As on the immortal canvas it appears, — 

'Tis said those were from trouble, and from tears, 
Exempted years ; and that, all through the place 
Where Leonardo painted her, the days 

Found ever scents that charm, and sound that cheers. 

Dear one, no Leonardo paints thy smile; 
Few flowers, and Httle music, oft there be 
To charm away the world's anxiety; 

Yet, oh, thy patient face hath all the while 
A more mysterious lovehness than stirs 
The heart of him who hath seen only hers ! 



Sonnets 

114 

THE REZZONICO PALACE 

("i4 Roberto Brownings morto in questo palazzo ") 

Low stars and moonlight beauty disavow 

That death has ever known her; but around 

Her melancholy portals only sound 
Of waters makes her music ; and the brow 
Of stately wall records the legend how 

"Died in this palace" a poet Love once crowned. 

Here the cold Angel that strong harp unbound: 
How chill and silent seem her chambers now ! 
O World, if ever moon should wander here 

Where builds my heart its palace for your song, 

And find such tablet in the outer wall, 
The poet dead, the chambers still and drear, 

Let not its hollow beauty win the throng 

To reverence, but let it perish all ! 



Sonnets 
"S 

"EX LIBRIS'* 

In an old book at even as I read 

Fast fading words adown my shadowy page, 

I crossed a tale of how, in other age, 
At Arqua, with his books around him, sped 
The word to Petrarch; and with noble head 

Bowed gently o'er his volume that sweet sage 

To Silence paid his wilhng seigniorage. 
And they who found him whispered, "He is dead!" 
Thus timely from old comradeships would I 

To Silence also rise. Let there be night. 
Stillness, and only these staid watchers by. 

And no light shine save my low study light — 
Lest of his kind intent some human cry 

Interpret not the Messenger aright. 



Sonnets 

ii6 



MOTHERS AND SISTERS 

Mothers and sisters, whom no sacrifice 

Dismays, nor whom your long, laborious hours 
Do anywise appall, ye are the powers 

By whom the swift are girded for the prize 

They reach in the light of your beHeving eyes. 
Ye are the hidden oil the shrine devours — 
Soil of the garden whence the great rose flowers — 

The silent force that bids a star arise. 

Ye ask of men nor honour, nor regret, 
Nor memory, save one's whose love is all. 

Renouncement ? Living daily the divine ! 

Effacement? Still the world your names shall call: 

Monica was the mother of Augustine ; 

Pascal had JacqueHne — Renan, Henriette ! 



Sonnets 

AFTER READING "THE GOLDEN TREAS- 
URY" IN GREEN PARK 

Off Piccadilly with its pavement cries, 

Its maddening monotone of wheel and hoof, 
Here in Green Park primeval summer lies, 

How near, how yearning, yet how far aloof ! 
O city, symbol of a world that still 

Heedless of beauty under heaven rolls ; 
And thou, bhthe meadow all with larks a-thrill 

Like poetry, that pasture of great souls — 
Ye twain so sundered shall forever dwell, 

A tumult and a blessing side by side: 
Here, as to toil-worn Argo once befell 

A singing island on a thundering tide, 
Where men might stretch them out in glad release. 
We too, much- wandering, hail this hour of peace ! 



Sonnets 

ii8 



TO GEORGE CRABBE 

Dusk falls, and through the deepening silence where 

Red afterglows yon ashen roof do paint 
Whose dormer children's tapers gild so fair, 

Far vesper chimes disperse their music faint. 
Beneath an ancient arch the river turns 

Full of his inexpressive melody: 
With tenderest longing my whole being yearns 

To set his old, imprisoned story free ! 
Unto this gloaming world, thou. Spirit sweet, 

With me art come; thou art of village things 
A low-voiced, love- enfolding paraclete 

Who soothest all their sleepy murmurings, 
And lurest from river, chime, and thatchen stead 
Tales of the inarticulate, and the dead. 



Sonnets 
119 

THOUGHT OF STEVENSON 

High and alone I stood on Calton Hill 
Above the scene that was so dear to him 
Whose exile dreams of it made exile dim. 

October wooed the folded valleys till 

In mist they blurred, even as our eyes upfill 
Under a too sweet memory; spires did swim, 
And gables rust-red, on the grey sea's brim — 

But on these heights the air was soft and still. 

Yet not all still : an aHen breeze will turn 
Here as from bournes in aromatic seas, 

As round old shrines a new-freed soul might yearn 
With incense of rich earthly reveries. 

Vanish the isles: Mist, exile, searching pain, 

But the brave soul is free, is home again ! 



Sonnets 

1 20 



BONINGTON (1801-1828) 

Who mourns his life was brief? He who forgets 

Work is the master's measure, and not years ! 
There on his sands that trailed their Norman nets, 

Far from the fluctuant city's joys and fears, 
Or in the long Louvre's golden-glorious streets, 

Prodigious in accomphshment he dwelled: 
A Chatterton of fancies, colour's Keats, 

Swift visitant, by other worlds compelled ! 
Much beauty had this boy to leave on earth; 

Grieve not, for he did leave it, hurrying hence 
To some more radiant art, some starred rebirth 

Where Truth most needed his soul's eloquence. 
And where he toils those stately minds among 
Who dare glance backward smihng, and with song. 



Sonnets 

121 



BENJAMIN-CONSTANT'S PORTRAIT OF 
QUEEN VICTORIA 

Apart, with centuries which she doth illume, 
The sunset on her face, around her throne 
Tapestried legends and heraldic stone, 
Silent she sits within that gorgeous gloom. 
Eyes narrowed in far retrospect assume 
Sorrows of empire. Not her dream alone 
Occident glories. Orients homage-prone. 
But more and more of Lucknow and Khartum. 
Along the past with heavy-lidded eyes 

She looks as one who knows the vision well, 
A quiet woman whom stately powers compel 
To splendour, and to silent sacrifice — 
For in the clare-obscure of her deep years 
What counter of gains hath likewise told her tears? 



Sonnets 

122 

ORPAH 

My heart is with thee, Orpah ! Meekly thou 
Out of the tender chronicle dost wend 
Back, lonely, unto Moab. Wordless friend, 

By those great tears, and that averted brow, 

(If anywhere thy loving spirit now 
My backward-turning heart's long cry attend !) 
I swear to thee soul-homage to the end. 

And speed thee my allegiance in one vow: 

''Silently I from out Love's chronicle 
Will wend alone: of me is Httle need. 
Silently will I go, and leave her this 

Sweet other friend, whose passion words can tell." 
— O Orpah, know that thou art blest indeed. 
For thou couldst weep — thou hadst Naomi's kiss ! 



Sonnets 
123 

A MOTIVE OUT OF LOHENGRIN 

Unearthly beauty of soft light persuadeth 
This castle which to shadows did belong; 
And through its farthest vaults sweet mellow song 

The silence of my wintry halls upbraideth; 

Gently as saffron dawn that smiHng fadeth 
The sable, yielding hours, these search along; 
And with them, souls of roses dead — faint throng 

Of odours of old years that all-pervadeth. 

Lady, this thing I speak not — do not fear it. 
'Twere more than friendship, yet no better name 
Dares my most grateful heart's allegiance claim 

Lest this, as I do think, be brother-spirit 

To him, swan-brought to Brabant's castled shore, 
Who, named aloud, was lost for evermore. 



Sonnets 

124 

THE MYSTERY OF BEAUTY 



For whom is Beauty? Where no eyes attend 
As richly goes the day; and every dawn 
Reddens along green rivers whereupon 

None ever gaze. Think, could earth see an end 

Of all the twiHght lovers whose thoughts blend 
With scents of garden blooms they call their own, 
Would not as close the yellowest rose outblown 

Be, after them, the unmurmurous evening's friend? 

Then wherefore Beauty, if in mortal eye 

That loves them stars no challenge read to shine, 

And all the wonder of a sunset sky 

Wax not more wondrous for such smile as thine? 

Why, pray, if not for Love which cannot die — 
This old earth- loving Love of thine and mine ! 



Sonnets 
125 

II 

When we two from our Summer hills have passed, 

And Autumn burns beneath thy praise no more, 

Nor any Winter's raving at our door 
Shuts each within the other's heart more fast; 
Neither Spring's roses learn what Hps thou hast — 

Oh, then this thing called Beauty to its core 

Our wedded souls shall penetrate before 
One thought unto Eternity is cast ! 
Then shall we know the violet's pretext ; learn 

More definite a promise of the rose, 
And its fulfilment; when the maples turn, 

Be part of all the glory among those; 
Or help the May with her uncoihng fern, 

And breathe the trillium open where it grows ! 



Sonnets 

126 



CONSUMMATION 

As the clear fountain sparkles on the hill 

In some flowered basin, at a cool, sweet height, 
Yet comes from we guess not what galleried night, 

Devious, untraced, and altogether ill, — 

So doth my love from other days distil. 

Through channels occult groping up to hght, 
Deeming all labours past as thrice requite 

If once thou stoop thy hollowed hand to fill. 

Clear eyes that bend upon my love thou hast, 
And I would have them cloudless of dismay : 

I thank the chastenings of that cryptic past 

Where those soiled waters crept their stains away, — 

Those slandered days, whose riddle, now, at last, 
Grows plain before this fair and final day. 



Sonnets 
127 



WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY 
{The first celebration in the new century) 

Earth, that hast countless aeons of swift days 

Spun from thy poles — and Uke a mote been swirled 
Fleet years about thy Master Orb — and hurled 

With all thy starry fellows into space, 

Silent and irresistible on the face 

Of heavens, and of heavens' heavens unfurled — 
And yet remainest our remembering world, 

Our kindly home, and our famihar place, — 

Thou dost not fail, sweet, immemorial Earth, 
To number o'er thy sons that were thy kings; 
Chants royal raisest thou among the rings 

Celestial of old stars for their great worth 

Whose birth was not as is our common birth, 
But was foreplanned with elemental things. 



Sonnets 

128 



ARLINGTON 

No tap of drum, nor sound of any horn, 

Shall call them now from this unbattled height; 
No more the picket dreads the traitor night. 

Nor would the marcher tired delay the morn. 

Fell some upon the field with victory torn 

From weakening grasp; and some before the fight, 
Doomed by slow fevers or the stray shot's spite; 

And some old wounds through quiet years have worn. 

And all are folded now so peacefully 
Within her breast whose glory was their dream — 
From her own bloody fields, from isles extreme, 

From the long tumult of the land and sea — 
Where Hes the steel Potomac's jewelled stream 
Like the surrendered sword of Memory. 



Sonnets 
129 

THE SEQUOIA, ''WILLIAM McKINLEY" 

{Christened October 21, 1901, Mariposa County , Cali- 
fornia) 

He who in dying blessed the peaceful trees 
That lulled the slow grief of the lapsing year 
Towards tranquil death, is best remembered here. 

He leaves a name that shall make holier these 

Huge temple pillars where the organing breeze, 
Always at requiem, fills the atmosphere, 
And does to their eternal roof uprear 

Perpetual music of great memories. 

Men raised rich temples in the days antique 
To serve memorial unto virtues wan 
Beside his. Him no rites shall celebrate 

Gold-bought, ephemeral as their altar-reek — 
But, while time is, he here in solemn state 
Shall hold fit place in Nature's pantheon. 



Sonnets 

130 

WHEAT ELEVATORS 
{Minnesota) 

Castles, or Titans' houses, or huge fanes 
Of ancient gods that yet compel men's fear — 
What powers, what pomps, do these betoken here 

Looming aloft upon the plough- seamed plains? 

Souls of ripe seasons and spirits of sweet rains 
Flock hither; and the sinewy, yellow year 
Heaps their high chambers with Pactohan gear 

More precious than those golden Lydian grains. 

Nor fortresses, nor demi-gods' abodes. 
These are upraised to well- feared deities 
Whose power is iron, and whose splendid sway 

Is undisputed now as when great Rhodes, 

And Tyre, and Carthage, flourished serving these, 
Or Joseph stored Egyptian corn away. 



Sonnets 
131 

THE COAL BREAKER 

{Pennsylvania) 

This is the house where, up from ages gone, 
Huge forests, root and leaf and bough and bole, 
With every bend of breeze and tempest-roll 

Preserved in crystal from earth's distant dawn, 

Again to Hght laboriously are drawn. 

No continent's tumultuous throes control 

Their phalanx more : they are black seams of coal 

And are upheaved by human will and brawn. 

But see, here in this ogre's castle weaves 
A magic power to make those forests glad 
And charm away their thousand ages' sleep, 

For more than all the beauty once they had 
Returns, with song of bird and rush of leaves. 
In the bright waving hearth- fire calm and deep. 



Sonnets 

132 

THE STATUE OF LIBERTY 

{New York Harbour, A. D. 2goo) 

Here once, the records show, a land whose pride 
Abode in Freedom's watchword ! And once here 
The port of traffic for a hemisphere, 

With great gold-pihng cities at her side ! 

Tradition says, superbly once did bide 

Their sculptured goddess on an island near. 
With hospitable smile and torch kept clear 

For all wild hordes that sought her o'er the tide.^ 

'Twas centuries ago. But this is true : 
Late the fond tyrant who misrules our land, 
Bidding his serfs dig deep in marshes old. 

Trembled, not knowing wherefore, as they drew 
From out this swampy bed of ancient mould 
A shattered torch held in a mighty hand. 



Note 
133 



NOTE 



Eusebius Pamphili, the fourth-century church historian, cites 
the public archives of the City of Edessa as authority for the 
story of Abgar's appeal to Jesus. He relates that Ananias was 
sent to Jerusalem with the following letter : — 

" Abgarus, King of Edessa, to Jesus the good saviour, who 
appears at Jerusalem, greeting. 

"I have been informed concerning you and your cures, 
which are performed without the use of medicines and herbs. 
For it is reported that you cause the blind to see, the lame 
to walk, do both cleanse lepers, and cast out unclean spirits 
and devils, and restore them to health, who have been long 
diseased, and raisest up the dead ; all which when I heard, I 
was persuaded of one of these two, namely, either that you 
are God himself descended from heaven, who do these 
things, or the son of God. 

" On this account therefore I have wrote to you, earnestly 
to desire you would take the trouble of a journey hither, and 
cure a certain disease which I am under. For I hear the 
Jews ridicule you, and intend you mischief. My city is 
indeed small, but neat, and large enough for us both." 



Note 

134 

A paraphrase of the reply of Jesus occurs in the drama in this 
volume. The promise of cure at the end of this reply is more 
definite as recorded by Eusebius ; but since the subsequent fate 
of the king is obscure, no detailed tradition is violated in the 
present working out of the story. 

There is also a tradition that the napkin of Veronica (or Bere- 
nice) came into the possession of Abgar, it having thence gone 
through many hands to its present resting-place at Rome. In 
the drama advantage has been taken of this legend to work out 
the fulfilment of the healer's promise. To complete the harmony 
of the story, it only needs to assume the identity of Ananias and 
his retinue with the " Greeks " alluded to in the twelfth chapter 
of John's Gospel : — 

" And there were certain Greeks among them that came 
up to worship at the feast. The same came therefore to 
Philip, which was of Bethsaida of Galilee, and desired him 
saying, ' Sir, we would see Jesus.' 

"Philip cometh and telleth Andrew, and again Andrew 
and Philip tell Jesus. And Jesus answered them, saying : — 
" ' The hour is come that the son of man should be glori- 
fied. Verily, verily, I say unto you, except a corn of wheat 
fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone ; but if it die it 
bringeth forth much fruit. He that loveth his life shall lose 
it ; and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto 
life eternal.'" 



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